by Alisa Adams
“Will ye let me marry yer daughter, Mungo?” asked Brice, starting to perspire profusely.
Mungo guffawed. “Now, why would ye want to do that, laddie?”
“Because I love her, ye great big oaf. Ye can’t have drunk so much this night for yer brain to have completely turned to porridge. Although I must say, ye took yer merry time about it after ye kicked me in the bawsack.”
“Aye, shame I didn’t damage ye for good. You’d make a wonderful eunuch. We could ship ye out to the Levant and sell ye as a bum boy to some Dey or Emir – ye’d like that.”
Brice ignored the jibe. It was what he had been taught to do. Heap negativity on your opponent to sap his energy – all great fighters did it; the trick was not to fall for it. “Don’t ye want any grandchildren?” He held his own magnificently against the bigger man in the lover’s dance that circled and circled on the spot in front of the high table.
“Aye, I do,” responded Mungo.
“Then yer gonna have to let a man near yer daughters, ye stingy bastard. As I told ye – I love Skye, and there will be no other man to give her bairns other than me. So, yer gonna have to put up with me whether ye like it or not. I could kill ye here and now, but I would much rather have ye as my second father than some rotting tub of meat in the ground. Yer ugly corpse would scare all the worms away for years.”
The expression on Mungo’s face softened. It gradually went from feral to cautious, until it completely dissolved into a contortion of such mirth the hall had never seen before.
“Scare the worms.” He hooted laughter. He pushed Brice away with his sword, the herculean lunge making the laird’s son fall onto his backside and slide a few paces. “Do ye ken what this little shit called me for me not letting him couple with my daughter? A stingy bastard,” he shouted, chortling again.
The entire hall burst into laughter. Mary let a sigh of relief vent past her lips. Freya and Skye exchanged relieved glances. Murtagh was in seventh heaven. This was just the way he liked his feasts. Alastair was both proud and content. He was about to embark on yet another one of those life voyages that defined a life well spent.
These trips came in different guises and shapes. They peppered life in many ways. The art of life was to accept and embrace them, to see these magical moments for what they were – a pinpoint in infinity that would never happen again. There was nothing more ignominious and sad than not drinking those special moments in, to the full, for they would never come again in exactly the same way.
Being born was one such moment. People don’t remember it, but they try to put the pieces together when they are fortunate enough to have a mother and father to relate it to them. Another might be that first kiss or falling in love for the first or the last time. It could be a moment when a person superseded all of his or her expectations and achieved that goal they had been striving for most of their lives. The birth of a child is another, and then the marriage of that child to the person he or she loved most in the world is one more.
“Get to yer feet, boy… ye fought well.” Mungo ruffled Brice’s hair as he pulled him up. “I only hope I live to see the day ye have a daughter of yer own. I will piss my kilt when I witness ye catching some runt trying to use his useless pecker on her.” He took the younger man in a bear hug that nearly enveloped him in his bulk.
“Well fought the both of ye,” said Alastair as they mounted the plinth and sat down with hearty grunts.
“Aye, the lad did very well. Just like we taught him,” said Mungo. “At least I ken he can look after my girl when I am scaring the worms.” He laughed again. His gaze shifted to his wife and daughters. “Get over here… And ye too, Bruce and Alick.”
His family walked up to the powerhouse of a man. Freya had reassumed her customary fierceness. When Freya got closer to her husband, Mungo pulled her lower and kissed her. “I am sorry for speaking harshly to ye, lass, but it just won’t do if ye contradict me in front of the clan. Ye ken that I never had a problem with Brice and Skye. I love the laddie. He is like a son to me. I have always known about the two of them and their little trips to the loch. When I caught them with their plaids over their arses tonight, I finally gave Brice the chance to ask me honorably. I had enough of all the skulking.”
Freya arched her eyebrows. “Ye knew?”
“Of course I knew.” He snorted his mirth again.
“Is nearly killing him honorable around here?” asked Elizabeth, butting in.
“I wouldn’t have killed him. My wife and daughter would have never spoken to me again. I just had to see for myself whether he is the man he claims to be. The laddie never hesitated. He fought for his and my daughter’s honor – what could I want more in a son.”
“Well said,” announced Alastair, getting to his feet. “A toast to my son and his betrothed, Skye, daughter of Mungo and Freya. Sláinte.”
“SLÁINTE!” Cups clashed as the clansmen slacked their thirst with ale and wine. They shouted their acclaim for the newly engaged couple.
When they quietened down, the laird resumed his talking: “We started honoring the memory of my wife’s father. Next, one of our own had to defend the clan’s honor against remarks made by a Sassenach. Finally, I nearly saw my own son being speared on the tip of Mungo’s sword – my boy prevailed and got the lass… I would call that an evening to remember.”
“AYE,” shouted the people present. “An evening to remember - SLÁINTE!”
4
A Herald from the King
* * *
Castle Diabaig, the Highlands, September, 1346
* * *
“My Laird, a herald from Kind David approaches Castle Diabaig,” said a burly clansman, standing before Alastair.
“Show the man all the proper respect and courtesy. Make sure his horse is watered and fed. Offer him food and quarters in the castle. When he has what he needs, bring him here.”
“Aye, my Laird.” The clansman spun on his heels and walked down the length of the Great Hall before vanishing through the wide vaulted doorframe.
“I was wondering when the storm of politics and war would reach us up here once again. It has been far too quiet as of late. David has been so busy trying to get all of his noblemen in place, he hardly has the time to put the sword to the English,” said Alastair.
“Aye, and he made a right mess of it too,” said Mungo. “He pledged to hand over lands already promised to one noble to another – switched it all around again, making everyone angry at him. He then appointed Alexander Ramsay of Dalhousie as Sheriff, consequently insulting Douglas who had him captured and imprisoned in Hermitage Castle where Dalhousie died of starvation. When that was not enough, rumors began to spread that he is considering negotiating with the King of England and suing for peace. What will our French allies think of such duplicity, eh? If he doesn’t watch it, he’ll have the whole bleedin’ country up in arms.”
“Aye, I ken. It is a sad time for a kingdom when its noblemen fight amongst themselves. Lucky for us, we’ve had no part in it.”
“Well then, it’s about time we get off our lazy arses and did something about it,” said Murtagh, joining in the conversation.
Both Alastair and Murtagh turned to face their friend. “And what do ye suggest we do?” asked Alastair.
Murtagh shrugged. “I dinnae ken – just something.”
Alastair chuckled. “Now that was very insightful, Murtagh. As usual, yer bum’s oot the windae,” he said, alluding that Murtagh talked rubbish most of the time.
“Aye, just like him to come up with all those sentiments and not ken what they mean.”
“Hawd yer wheesht, man. Ye are no better. All ye do all day is lurk about, trying to keep young Brice from molesting yer daughter.” Murtagh hacked out a laugh. “Ye didn’t do so well on that front now, did ye? Skye’s to be married to the laddie.”
Mungo’s eyes shrunk to a squint. “If I were ye, I’d watch my mouth. Judging by the size of yer belly, ye couldn’t even hold yer own in a fight. Bee
n hanging around the kitchen too much, waiting for yer pretty wife to throw ye some scraps. Ye’re as large as a barrel of ale.”
The three men laughed.
“Aye, ye are right about that. My Caitlin is a fine cook, a skill ye are not all that inclined to deny, I’d say.” Murtagh pointed at Mungo’s midriff with a wagging index finger. “Ye got yer thieving mitts on one of my lass’ pies the other day – saw ye I did.”
“Aye, and tasty it was too. I have become homely like ye, Murtagh. That’s what a lusty wife and bairns do to ye.” Mungo frowned. “I do hope that herald has some good news. By God, we need a turn on the battlefield again. Get stuck in like in the olden days – eh, Alastair?”
“Aye, we have become as soft as gentlefolk.” It was not true. Murtagh’s girth may have grown in size, but the other two were as lithe and fit as ever. And in all fairness to Murtagh, his indulgence in the good life did not make him a lesser warrior. On the contrary, his slightly protruding belly gave him the appearance of being even more powerful. “I think a trip to England might knock us back into shape,” he continued.
“Do ye think that’s why the messenger’s here?” asked Murtagh.
“Maybe. If what Sir Peter said the other night is anything to go by, then King David could be on the warpath again. I only hope he is man enough to face the likes of that Black Prince should he ever lead an army up against us,” said Alastair, eyeing his fellows closely.
“Aye, that English lad has the makings of a true king if the stories about him carry any weight. I’d wager, he’d thrash the living daylights outta King David if they were ever pitted against one another.”
Alastair eyeballed his friend shrewdly. “Whose side would ye be on, if ye could choose?” he asked with a slight smile on his face.
“On our king’s of course. Ye ken that I would rather fight for a Scottish walloper than any Sassenach bastard. I swore the man my allegiance. I dinnae break my word, Alastair,” said Mungo.
Alastair arched his eyebrows. “Are ye implying that I am a walloper too? Ye serve me, and I am Scottish.”
“Not ye, ye walloper.”
Both men burst out laughing. In their mirth, they never noticed one of the guards announcing the herald’s arrival. “Lads, my Laird, Mungo, pull yerselves together. The king’s messenger approaches,” said Murtagh, for once being the serious one.
“Welcome, laddie,” said Alastair, regaining his composure as the messenger came to a standstill in front of him.
The herald bowed. “Thank ye, my Laird.” He reached for a cylindrical leather container tied to his mud-caked body via a strap and opened the cap. He removed a roll of parchment from it and held it out in the direction of the laird.
Murtagh stepped forward and off the plinth. He took the copy of writing – with hardly the same deference and ceremony the messenger had displayed – and walked back to Alastair. When he moved, it was like a hill in passage. He was shorter than both Alastair and Mungo, but he was wide as he was tall. He had an affable face that spent most of its time showing off his mirth.
He handed the document to Alastair. “Here, my Laird, some light reading for ye.”
“Thank ye, my friend.” Alastair perused the meticulously written script on the yellowish paper that boasted the seal of the king of Scotland. He arched his eyebrows now and again. A lot of what was written he had heard during the night of the feast. Yet, he had not expected the king’s reaction to be quite the one he was showing now. “It appears that the king wants us to join him at Perth,” he said, handing the parchment to his wife who had sat next to him the entire time in silence.
“What are we to do at Perth?” asked Mungo.
“Sometimes, ye have a skull as thick as a bull’s. All bovine and no brain. What do ye bleedin’ think the king wants us there for?” said Murtagh. When he saw Mungo shrug, he continued, “There’s to be a battle against the English – I ken it. Isn’t that right, my Laird?” He shifted his gaze to Alastair.
“Aye, there is, Murtagh. The king wants all the clan chiefs to muster their men and join him at Perth where a mighty army is gathering. He needs us there as soon as possible. The French defeat at Crécy has left our ally helpless in the face of the English who already march on Calais – they might even already be besieging the place. King Philip IV of France himself entreated our king to come to his aid.”
“By God, the Frenchman hopes that if we put pressure on the English’s northern frontier, they will have to withdraw their army from the continent,” said Mungo.
“Aye, that’s precisely what they want – two fronts to weaken Sassenach resolve,” said Alastair, scrunching his brow.
“Is that wise? I mean what if the English do withdraw from France and target all of their power here? Won’t that put our country in jeopardy once more? We barely got by the last time by the skin of our teeth. With the majority of his army and his best commanders in France, King Edward and his forces have hardly been a threat for some time now,” said Mary.
“Aye, my Sassenach. I ken. But I also ken Edward and the way he thinks. He would never give up such a big prize such as France, especially now that he has them on the run.” Alastair thought a moment. “No, he will send his northern army here. The English are arrogant bastards that believe in their superior military might. Their victory at Crécy is to our advantage. It will strengthen their hubris and thus their belief in their own invincibility.”
“Aye, and Mary, we cannot leave the French in the lurch. Our two countries have been in the ‘Auld Alliance’ ever since 1294 when Edward the Longshanks ruled England. Each country promised to invade England when the other’s soil was trodden on by an English soldier in strife,” said Mungo.
“I see. So, we are honor bound to this agreement?” she asked.
“I am afraid so, Mary,” said Alastair. He and his wife looked at one another for a few heartbeats before Alastair turned to Mungo and Murtagh. “Laddies, inform the men. We march for Perth as soon as the preparations are complete.”
“Aye, my Laird,” they replied in unison before leaving the hall.
“Tell King David that Laird Alastair of the Clan Macleod will heed his summons. I will be at Perth with my forces within the week.”
“Very good, my Laird. May I ask leave of ye now? My king will want to hear this information as soon as possible,” said the herald.
“Ye may. Do ye require a fresh horse and provisions, laddie?”
“Aye, that would be most welcome. My horse is blown from the hard ride up here. I could do with another,” said the herald, gratefully.
“Then see to it that ye are accorded all that ye need. I will make sure the mount ye are leaving behind comes with us when we ride south.”
“Thank you, my Laird. That is most generous.”
“Think nothing of it… May God grant thee fair weather and safe travels,” said Alastair, waving his hand.
“Thank ye, my Laird.” The messenger bowed and spun on his heels. In moments, he vanished from the hall.
“Well, it is back to war for us,” muttered Alastair. “I am getting too old for this shite.”
Mary’s eyes twinkled at him. “You didn’t seem that old to me this morning in bed. I felt as if I had a twenty-year-old man all to myself. You were quite the stallion you know.”
Alastair hooted laughter. “Ye surely ken how to make an old man feel good again, Mary. But being young with ye is a completely different thing to marching across bogs, glens, and hills to fight a war that might kill ye. When I was younger, I had nothing to lose and everything to gain. Now, it is different. I have ye and the laddies and the people of this clan to look after.”
“I know, my love.” She got to her feet and took the two steps that separated their thrones. She sat down on his lap and stroked his cheek. “You know what has happened to you?”
Alastair pleated his brow. “No.”
“You have become what we term in England as gentrified. You are content with peace and have grown fat off the land
. That is not to say that you are fat, Alastair,” she added quickly when she saw his eyes darken. “We have to fight for what we love, and you must be an example to our sons… I am assuming that you will be taking Brice and Doogle with you?”
Alastair nodded. “Aye. I often wonder what will become of Callum though? He is so different to his brothers. He hasn’t got a martial bone in his body.”
“But you love him nonetheless?”
“Of course I do,” he said, stroking her cheek. “I only wonder what he can do with himself?”
“That’s because you never speak to him enough about his dreams. It’s all how’s the sword practice or when is the next hunt.” Mary jiggled her shoulders. “You do realize that Callum has no interest in any of those things. He is the smartest of your sons. Where Brice and Doogle have mastered what you yourself learned when you were a boy, Callum has added to that. As well as French and Latin, he has mastered Italian, Spanish and Portuguese. His mathematical skills are beyond belief. I think Callum would be a good priest.”
“A priest?”
“Yes, Alastair, a priest. Is that so horrible?”
“No. Father Cuthbert is getting old. Maybe he can instruct Callum in the ways of the Catholic Church? I will speak with Callum before I leave for Perth to see if that might be of interest to him.”
“I was thinking more along the lines of letting him go on a pilgrimage to Rome to meet with the pope, Alastair.”
Mary’s comment invited a look of surprise from her husband. “Is that what he said he wanted to do?”
“Well, he hinted to as much the other night. Callum called such a voyage the pinnacle of Catholic worship and belief. He said that there was no greater thing for a faithful servant of the church to do.”
“Good God. I really don’t ken my youngest son. The laddie must hate me.”
“Oh no, my love. On the contrary, Callum loves you very much. I just want you to tell him that he doesn’t disappoint you because he is no warrior like Brice or Doogle. You will that do that for me, my love?”
